The Mad Girl With A Suitcase
by Hannah Tennant-Cumberbatch
Summary: Amy Pond was tired of being the mad girl with a suitcase waiting for her madman with a box. So Amy Pond goes where every girl desperate for an escape goes- London. 221A Baker Street, to be exact, where she meets yet another madman who she hasn't been waiting for. But one things for sure, because your life may depend on it- Amy Pond is still the mad girl with a suitcase. Pondlock.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Hello! This is my first ever Wholock fiction, so I hope you enjoy. Amy/Sherlock is a ship that really intrigues me so I just had to write this one down. Note in advance, Sherlock doesn't appear in this prologue, but this is vital so the story flows properly. Please review if you can because I want to know if you like/hate!**

**Disclaimer: Don't own either Sherlock or Doctor Who, so don't sue. Please.**

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**Prologue**

The tears still prickled in the back of her eyes as she abandoned her back garden and ran up the stairs to her bedroom. He'd left her. _Again. _Amy Pond had had enough of people just running off without saying goodbye- and not knowing when or if they'd be back.

She'd waited twelve years for that miraculous man to return. Twelve incredibly long years that she'd never ever wish back because they were filled with so much lost hope and hurt and a feeling of just how unwanted she'd always been. She did not want to live through the next twelve years (or perhaps longer) reliving the last. She did not want to spend the rest of her days staring out her bedroom window waiting for a blue police box to magically materialise out of thin air while the rest of Leadworth (bar Rory and Mels) gossiped about her. 'That Amy Pond,' they'd say, 'She's nineteen years old and she still believes that her imaginary childhood friend is real.'

Well, not any more. Amy Pond was tired of waiting for her indecisive madman. Twelve years was long enough. She wasn't prepared to give up any more of her life for a person she had no idea would return- even though she was desperate for him to come back. Of course she was. Who wouldn't be desperate for a constant sense of danger and adventures in a time machine?

But maybe it was time to stop dreaming about adventures. Maybe now was time to go on some of her own.

Amy kneeled down to look underneath her bed and sure enough, there it was, her little beige suitcase which she'd had since she was a kid. The only suitcase she'd ever owned because she'd never been on holiday long enough to buy a bigger one.

She pulled open the metal clasps which held the top and bottom together and flung it open, revealing the contents. She choked back the sob in her throat as she realised her seven year old self's things were still in there. The suitcase which she'd never unpacked, even when she was fifteen years old (the last time she remembered it) in case he returned- though how a seven year olds clothes were going to satisfy her as a teenager she had no idea.

She threw the couple of jumpers, pants, knickers and socks onto the floor, as well as a crusty old teddy bear. She looked at the bear for a moment, its big, sad amber eyes staring back at her- well, it was bound to be a bit upset at least, seeing as it had been buckled up in a suitcase for twelve years.

Like she'd been buckled up in Leadworth.

Amy flung open her wardrobe grabbing a skirt and a jumper- just realising that she was still wearing her policewoman's outfit. Then realising that she'd never have to wear it again.

To be honest, she'd never worn it much before anyway. There wasn't much need for a kiss-o-gram in Leadworth. The only parties that she was ever hired for were people she knew previously; creepy guys from her high school or even creepier guys from the community hall. Being a kiss-o-gram wasn't even that much of a laugh, really. It just gave her cash.

Amy Pond could do so much better than a kiss-o-gram- maybe she would've, if that stupid Doctor hadn't have come and messed up her life.

"Amy!" Rory exclaimed from the doorway, "What are you doing?"

"Getting out of here." Amy spat back at him, harsher than intended, throwing a skirt into the suitcase lying open on her bed.

Rory stared at her confusedly, wandering into her bedroom. "What do you mean?"

"What do you think I mean?" Amy snapped. She looked her 'boyfriend' in the eyes, and saw how much pain he was in. She lowered her voice a little. "I'm getting away from Leadworth."

"What?" said Rory, "Why? You can't!"

"Just watch me," Amy replied, stuffing as many jumpers as she could into the tiny bag. "I'm feeling so suffocated here, Rory. I'm sick of it."

"Stop. Stop, Amy." Rory tried to encourage her, as he hovered behind her going back and forth to her wardrobe. "Look, you're upset about the Doctor. You're not thinking straight-"

"I'm thinking perfectly fine, thank you." Amy interjected. "And yes, I am upset."

"Exactly." Rory confirmed. He touched her shoulder, but she shook it off. "That's why you should calm down before you do anything stupid."

"Calm down?" Amy yelled out loud enough for Rory to step back a bit with shock, "You want me to bloody calm down? I waited twelve years for him, Rory. Twelve _fucking _years! Twelve years I'll never get back. And who knows if he's going to make an appearance again?"

"He might-"

"Yes, he might, Rory. He very well might. In another twenty years, maybe? Thirty? And do you think I'm prepared to wait that long? By then, he won't want me anymore." Amy paused for a moment, looking down at her little suitcase. She could feel the tears, hot and angry, stinging her eyes. "I don't want to wait anymore. I want to have a life, without being accused of being mad or OCD or-"

"You'll always be perfectly sane to me." Rory interrupted; he, too, looking like he was going to burst into tears at any second.

Amy glanced at him. Rory Williams. The only boy Amy could ever truly say cared about her much more than he cared about himself. Stable, loving Rory. Did he deserve this?

This wasn't about Rory, though. This was about _her._

"I'm not perfectly sane, though, Rory, am I?" Amy said, despite Rory's headshakes. "I'm that mad girl with the suitcase, waiting for her madman with a box. Maybe I don't want that madman anymore. I've always wanted proper adventures, Rory. You know that, from when he were kids, when you and me and Mels would wander up into Upper Leadworth and wander round the ruins for hours on end. You would be the prince, trapped in the tower, I'd be the kick-ass princess and Mels would be the dragon- even if she did go a bit overboard and scare all the nursery kids at the playground."

Rory chuckled softly, reaching out for Amy's hands. "We can still have adventures, Amy. What about those adventures we can have in the future? Y'know…" he blushed bashfully, "When we get married…"

Amy grimaced and wriggled out of his grip. "You know I don't do 'settling down', Rory. I don't do quiet. And I definitley don't do growing up. I've been bred with the notion that there's a lot more out there than just stability- I need the adrenaline. I need the noise. I could get that with the Doctor, but I can't get that here in Leadworth. Or…" she hesitated, "With you."

Rory couldn't blink back the tears which were freely spilling across his cheeks. "Are you… Are you breaking up? With me?"

Amy couldn't reply. She just couldn't. She couldn't find the right words to heal this wound.

Had she just broken up with Rory?

She shook her head and walked up to her bathroom, grabbing her toothbrush and deodorant as well as any other necessities.

There was no going back now.

She dropped all of her things into her case and clamped down the lid, buckling up the clasps.

She felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Amy, please don't do this." Rory whimpered, although he knew he was fighting a losing battle. He could never win to Amy.

"Don't make this more difficult," Amy half-whispered, half-pleaded, as she pulled the bag from her bed and started to make her way out the bedroom door.

Rory blocked the doorway. "Think about what you're doing, Amy. Please. Think about what you're leaving behind."

"Please Rory," Amy sobbed, "I can't think about what I'm leaving behind because I'll break. I need to do this. You know I do."

Rory was properly crying now, his face a mess of tears and sadness and heartbreak. "Where will you go? You have no money! How will you get there? I can't let you…"

"I'll get money. I'll find somewhere to stay. I'll get a job." Amy gripped Rory's face in her right hand, wiping away a few of his tears with her thumb. "Forget about me, Rory. Please. Just, forget. Find someone else. Trust me, it'll be so much easier- for me, and for you."

Rory held Amy's wrist tightly, refusing to let go. "I can't forget you Amy. I… I love you, Amy."

Amy shook her head and pushed past him. She jogged down the stairs to the front door, which was still open.

She debated just walking out the door, there and then, and catching the next bus to the train station. From the train station to London. Then she'd find somewhere to stay- a flat, somewhere. She had enough money, her parents had left inheritance on her credit card. That should get her by until she got a job, at least.

"What if he comes back?" Rory asked from the stairway. Amy turned to face him. "The Doctor. What if he comes back tomorrow? Or next week?"

"Tell him that he's too late." Amy said, the hurt she was feeling blatant in her tone. "Tell him that I don't wait around forever."

And with that, she walked out the door.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Yes, I haven't updated this story, well, ever... But I've been snowballed with ideas. What do you think? Do you like this chapter? Should I continue? Please drop me a review, they make my day! Hannah x**

**Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.**

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**Chapter 1**

No matter how many times Mrs Hudson implied that she _defintiley wasn't _Sherlock Holmes' and John Watson's house-keeper, she always seemed to do what a house-keeper did in general anyway. She'd cook, buy the shopping as well as a whole manner of other things for her two lodgers; but one thing Mrs Hudson _never _did was clean for them. Occasionally she'd tidy the books on the shelf or rearrange the sofa cushions, but she never vacuumed or dusted or polished- as far as she was concerned, that was John and Sherlock's duty.

But today Mrs Hudson was in full super-domestic mode, coming in at eight o'clock in the morning (Sherlock was already out at that time, for some reason John couldn't determine- he still hadn't returned) with mop in hand and wearing a tattered blue apron. The reason behind this was still unbeknown to John; his landlady only muttered things to herself while she scrubbed their flat clean.

John, of course, offered to help about three hours ago (when he'd gotten up) but Mrs Hudson refused any. Whatever she was doing she had to on her own, in her own way. Even though she was tidying his and Sherlock's space. Which seemed a bit wrong, but John didn't do anything about it.

At about quarter to eleven, Mrs Hudson had almost finished her 'chores'. In the time she'd done this, John had managed to read a whole newspaper twice as well as go and get breakfast from Speedy's next door, then update his blog. He pondered going to make a cup of tea about three times but every time he approached the kitchen Mrs Hudson gave him a look to suggest otherwise. Even though, strictly speaking, it was his kitchen that _he _was paying for so he should be able to do what he liked in it. However he decided not to interrupt. Better not while Mrs Hudson was in full flow.

John was perched on the edge of the arm chair, looking at the now spotless coffee table, when Mrs Hudson finally spoke to him properly for the first time that morning.

She had her arms folded, her face scrutinising the state Sherlock had left the kitchen table last night that he didn't bother cleaning up. "John, dear, do you think Sherlock will mind if I move his things around a bit? He always leaves everywhere such a mess, that boy."

John smiled to himself. He loved the way how his landlady always referred to Sherlock as if he was a mischievous youngster rather than a grown-up sociopath. But Mrs Hudson did always treat Sherlock in a way no-one else really understood. "I wouldn't know. Sometimes he doesn't care, sometimes he throws a fit. As long as you- Oh."

John cut his warning short as he saw Mrs Hudson was already throwing Sherlock's carefully prepared petri dishes into a plastic box she produced from nowhere. "Sorry, dear, were you saying something?"

John merely shook his head. Hopefully Mrs Hudson wouldn't feel the wrath of Sherlock because, to be honest, Sherlock did hold Mrs Hudson higher in his ranks than his paternal mother. And possibly his brother too. "It doesn't matter."

Mrs Hudson regarded John's response with a quick nod. "Good, good. Because I know what your Sherlock can be like."

"Yeah." John's head suddenly shot up and he gave Mrs Hudson a sceptical look. "Wait a minute. _My _Sherlock? He's not _my _Sherlock. He doesn't…"

There was no point in continuing to speak as Mrs Hudson wasn't listening. She'd thrown the remainders of Sherlock's belongings into the box and threw it on top of the kitchen cabinet, out of the way. She gave the table a quick once over with a cloth, ridding the surface of any stains. She then had a glance in the fridge and John could tell she breathed a little sigh of relief when she realised there were no dismembered body parts casually lying about in there with their food.

She pushed the door shut then stepped back, pressing her hands together- clearly pleased with herself. "There we go! All done."

John looked over with a confused glare and the obvious question popped into his head- the question he was still yet to properly ask. "Yeah, Mrs Hudson, what did you just clean the flat for? Me and Sherlock could've…"

Mrs Hudson's eyes grew wide, much like a rabbit in the headlights. "Oh, didn't I tell you, dear?"

John couldn't help but chuckle to himself. "No, I think you must've forgotten to mention it. While you were cleaning."

Mrs Hudson must've spotted a speck of dust on the kitchen sideboard as she whipped out her cloth quickly and scrubbed the surface intensely for a second. "I've got a girl coming round to look round a room in my flat. Only talked to her yesterday- was in a right fluster, poor thing. So I told her that I had a bedroom going and she's coming in…" Mrs Hudson paused to check her watch, "About ten minutes."

John was slightly startled by this sudden announcement. A new flatmate? In 221 Baker Street? "Oh. Right. So she's coming this morning?"

Mrs Hudson nodded. "Yes. In ten minutes. Pretty girl, too. Maybe she'll interest our Sherlock."

John spluttered with the absurdity of Mrs Hudson's comment. "Sherlock? Girl? No! Just… No. Definitley not."

Mrs Hudson brought her hands up to her face. "Oh, I see. Are…"

John silenced her before she could continue. "Don't even start, Mrs Hudson. Don't even start."

Mrs Hudson nodded and tapped the side of her nose in an 'I understand' way. John got fed up of trying to intervene her thoughts with his protests. "Anyway, I just wanted to give the whole place a little tidy up. Don't want the state of you pair's flat to put her off before she's even had a chance."

John didn't know whether to be insulted or not by that comment. Anyway, the thought of a new person (that person being a lady, as a bonus) seemed promising and he was instantly intrigued. "So you're planning on bringing the lady in question up here?"

"Of course!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed as if there was no other answer to that question, "I need her to meet the two other occupants that live under this roof! She seemed like such a vulnerable lamb, poor dear, I need her to realise that she's got two wonderful gentlemen upstairs to lend her a hand."

"You can rely on me, Mrs Hudson, but…"

As if he could sense his name was about to be spoken, Sherlock swooped into the living room with the strange elegance, like he owned wherever he walked in. His blue scarf was wrapped in a loose knot round his neck and his black coat had its collar turned up- it wasn't windy outside, so he obviously was doing that 'trying to be cool' thing again.

"Well, that was _tedious!" _he announced with flourish, pulling off his coat and throwing it onto the sofa arm, Mrs Hudson tutting as he did so. "Ordinary murderers are _so _dull. They lack that element of intelligence that only serial killers possess. That element being that the serial ones are actually clever and the ordinary ones just aren't._"_

He threw himself onto the sofa and grabbed the newspaper which had by placed lazily on the edge of the coffee table when John had finished with it. "I see you're awake then. I was going to ask you to accompany me this morning, but you were still sleeping- anyway, you should be grateful. The murderer was so obvious that I could find him in just over ten minutes- that shirt. It was so simple I expected Lestrade to have seen it, but of course, he didn't. Maybe it was because I saw him speaking to Anderson last night- everybody knows that Anderson has a voice which instantly exterminates brain cells."

Suddenly, Sherlock stopped talking (which was a change) and sniffed the air. "Mrs Hudson, why is everything so clean?"

"Maybe _I _cleaned." John suggested.

Sherlock gave his friend a look. "Oh, come on, John. We all know that isn't true."

John threw his hands up in mock surrender and went to sit on the other couch. There was no point in saying things like that when your flatmate could read you better than a book. Although, Sherlock probably didn't need to make any deductions to come up with that assumption…

Mrs Hudson tutted at her lodger, her face a picture of disapproval. "I could've sworn that I'd told you, Sherlock."

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he chucked the newspaper back onto the coffee table. John had realised a long time ago that Sherlock Holmes only ever read the newspaper to keep count- to keep count on just how many errors the press could make. "When was this?"

"Yesterday evening!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, rushing in to remove the newspaper from the table and into the rack. "You were lying on the sofa over there, you were. You had all those patches up your arm like you do sometimes."

Sherlock's face flooded with realisation. "Four-patch problem, Mrs Hudson. No other words or thoughts are valid but my own when it's a four-patch problem."

Four patches. Only Sherlock Holmes would use four patches at once. John had realised that a while back now.

"That'll explain why you didn't say anything." Mrs Hudson nodded knowingly, clearly used to Sherlock's strange habits. "Thought you'd have made a comment or two about having a new lodger."

John could almost see Sherlock's ears prick up at the mention of the word _lodger. _"Lodger? Why do you need another lodger?"

Mrs Hudson was now approaching the door- according to the clock; it was only a few minutes before her lodger was supposed to arrive. "It's not that I need one, dear, I just have a room spare and it would be nice to have a bit of company."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his landlady. John had no idea how Sherlock processed these remarks- the remarks that most humans understood but somehow he just _didn't. _"You have John and me."

Mrs Hudson gave Sherlock a light tap on the shoulder then officially walked out the door. "I know, love. But I can be awfully lonely when you two boys aren't around!"

The door-knocker downstairs signalled Mrs Hudson and she charged down the stairs, flinging open the front door with a flourish of greetings and hellos. If John wasn't mistaken, he could sense the hint of a Scottish accent coming from the girl behind the door.

Sherlock still looked somewhat confused. This amused John- give him the Periodic table he could recite it backwards without even more of a glance, but give him something normal and average and everyday he was pretty much clueless.

"Loneliness?" Sherlock pondered out loud, "I was alone for a long while before Baker Street. I never felt _lonely."_

"Well, yeah, that's because you're you." John reminded him. "You had a skull as a substitute for any friends."

"Good listener, my skull. The previous owner; not so much."

John decided not to delve anymore into his companion's past and got out of the sofa, wandering into the kitchen. He switched the kettle on at the wall. "Anyway, Mrs Hudson is bringing her new lodger up here in a minute. Don't do anything to scare her off."

Sherlock abruptly leaped off the armchair and back into the kitchen. He easily found the box of his chemicals that Mrs Hudson had packed away minutes earlier and set them out, back in their original position, on the kitchen table. "Why would I scare her off, John?"

"Don't act like you don't know." John extracted two mugs from the cupboard. "Your deductions. Yes, a million an odd may appear-"

"Observe, John. Observe. There's a difference."

"Fine then. _Observe. _All the same, if you can find out the ins and outs of her… _Relationship status _by the colour of her skirt or trousers or whatever, don't say them out loud."

"Why not?" a small grin turned up the edges of Sherlock's mouth, "You were impressed."

"That's different." John poured the boiling water into the two cups, "_Women _are different. Just don't, Sherlock. Please."

"Fine!" Sherlock concluded, carefully setting up his precious microscope, "But it's not my fault that some people make things so obvious for me. Sometimes, John, it's like they're asking for it. Sergeant Donovan, for example, is…"

Sherlock stopped dead in the middle of his sentence, which was unusual. John turned around to see what had caused this abrupt finish (Sherlock could discuss the mental flaws of his colleagues for hours) when he saw two women standing in their living room- one was Mrs Hudson, of course, the other whom he didn't recognise.

The lodger.

Her hair, which was long and a frankly alarming (but brilliant) shade of red, hung across her shoulders in loose curls. Her skin was incredibly pale, like porcelain, but she had a sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks- like they'd been placed there by hand. She was dressed in a short black skirt which accentuated her endless, slender legs while her top half was clad in a pale blue vest with a leather jacket; a red, almost the same colour as her hair, scarf was thrown lazily and messily round her neck.

She was tall, too. Easily taller than John. Maybe a little shorter than Sherlock. But tall, all the same. Tall, and about twenty-one years old. From what John could see. Obviously, Sherlock would've been able to see so much more, but she was definitley tall. And quite pretty. _Very _pretty.

"This is nice," the girl remarked, studying the flat with great interest. And John was right. She was Scottish. "Very nice."

"You can do whatever you like downstairs, dear. It could do with a bit of a do-up, you know." Mrs Hudson encouraged her new flatmate. She then turned to the direction of the kitchen, where Sherlock and John were stood. "Amy, this is John and Sherlock. The boys who I've been telling you about?"

The girl, Amy, stopped looking around the living room and dragged her attentions to her new fellow lodgers. She smiled warmly and advanced with a sort of lankiness- like she hadn't quite grown into her tallness quite yet. "Oh, hello! I'm Amy Pond. Mrs Hudson has told me all about you two."

She approached John first. "So, are you Sherlock or John?"

John extended out his arm and Amy willingly shook it. "I'm John. John Watson. Welcome to Baker Street."

She grinned- and for some reason, it made John go a little weak at the knees. Maybe she did that to everyone. "Thank you."

"Is it your first time in London, Amy?" John wondered, making light conversation with Amy as he would probably be seeing her a lot now.

"Yeah." she replied, "I come from this tiny town called Leadworth; middle of nowhere. It was so _dull. _Came to London for an escape. I mean, London is where everything is, isn't it?"

Something about the way Amy said _dull _distinctly reminded John of Sherlock. It was blatantly a coincidence, but it reminded him of him all the same. "I'm sure Sherlock and I will show you around. Won't we, Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He just stood there, staring at Amy, a look so hard and calculating on his face. He didn't even move when Amy offered her hand in the way John had done moments earlier.

"So, you're Sherlock? I'm Amy." Amy pulled her hand back to her side, but Sherlock didn't stop staring. He didn't falter, he didn't flicker. He just stood there; intensely studying the girl before him with his eyes.

John patted her shoulder but gave Sherlock an evil glare before she turned around. "Just ignore him. He's like that sometimes."

Amy laughed. She didn't seem fazed by the sheer strangeness of her other flatmate. "I'll just have to get used to it, won't I?"

"I'm afraid so. Anyway, if you have any trouble, I'll always be willing to help. If Sherlock isn't."

Amy nodded gratefully. "Thanks, John. I appreciate it." she then paused and turned to Sherlock, who was still in the same position. "And next time, Sherlock, try not staring. Not a great first impression."

She gave John a small smile before both she and Mrs Hudson exited the room together, going down the stairs to 221A having a little conversation as they went.

When they'd left and shut the door to the kitchen, Sherlock snapped out of his trance. He went back to ordering his chemicals like the whole last five-ten minutes just didn't happen.

John couldn't have that.

"Um, Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't look up. "Yes?"

"What the hell was that?"

This time he averted his eyes from his work and glanced up at John. "What was what?"

"Don't you dare pretend like that just didn't happen. Don't you dare." John was angry now, clenching his palms. "I wouldn't blame the girl if she didn't dare come up here again!"

Sherlock shrugged her shoulders. "So? Wouldn't that be better?"

"No, Sherlock, it wouldn't. Because even though you say you don't need friends I do. And Amy, she looked like she could be a friend of mine. Although, you'd probably have already seen whether she would be or not the amount of time you stood there just _staring!_"

"That's the point, John." Sherlock mumbled, barely audible.

"What?!"

"That's the point!" Sherlock roared suddenly, making John's heart leap. "I couldn't see anything!"

"Well of course you- Wait, what?" John asked, not sure whether he heard Sherlock correctly or not.

"I couldn't see anything! Not one line of her life history, not what she does for a living, not how she ended up in London!" Sherlock was enraged and he gripped John's shoulders hard. "And that just doesn't happen. I see everything!"

John was confused. Seriously confused. "What? How?"

"I don't know how!" Sherlock's voice went low. Scarily low. "I know it's impossible. Amy Pond is impossible. And that scares me and intrigues me at the same time."


End file.
